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Perhaps I am encroaching on Tristan’s territory (see The Rest of the Internet); if so, I apologise, but this week I’m going to look at the role of the internet in the development of the story surrounding the Virginia Tech massacre (what has become known, to Americans, as 4/16 – I can’t help but feel that they have a predilection for branding events in overly-simplistic terms).
It was a bluish day in sky and mood. There were no appointments, no stress. There were only the pure green blades of grass, the shadows of the billowing trees and the calls of the distant birds. Pure easiness, pure clearness of mind. Sharp rays of sunshine illuminated the garden so that John had to squint and blink, and shade his eyes with his hand just to watch the sprinkler putter-putter-putter at the other end of the lawn. He was alone with his thoughts, but he had found that he had had to discard most of them upon moving; thought here was encouraged – there was little to do but think. But thoughts of rush, hurry and bustle were taboo and frowned upon by the staff. So he sat deep in his chair, the one with the thick arms and wicker back, like a convalescent.
‘Pigs are actually very clever,’ someone replied. ‘The average pig is as intelligent as a three year old child’.
‘Yes, but they are still ignorant of their own existence,’ said the voice again. A long haired guy next to me was drooling, but I don’t think he realised. A television was making noise somewhere, and I realised I had gone too far.
‘Fuck you. Fuck all of you!’
A horrible fear was kicking in – everything was moving too fast, too many thoughts, none of them satisfying. Time rolled on, and I realised I had no idea how long we’d been sat there in the dark silence in our New York hotel room. Continue reading
As a wave of music articles is slowly taking over the Hashmark, I feel I must take a step back for a moment, and consider purely the lyrical content of In Dub by Hallucinogen. I won’t lie to you, there aren’t many lyrics on this album, but there are some very interesting concepts and ideas.
For close to two and a half thousand years, Iran has been a great nation. Five empires, from the Medians to the Safavids have risen and fallen, at their height stretching from Libya to Eastern Europe to India. It is telling that though Arab armies dominated a strip of land from west Africa to the Indonesian archipelago, Iran has never long been ruled, aside from by the brief Mongol occupation, keeping its own language, Farsi, and its own Shi’ite form of Islam. Iran is a fiercely independent Nation; it remained a truly independent country until the Shia safavids fell and the new powers of Britain and Russia began imperial jockeying for power. For a long period Iran ceased to be a real state, becoming a theatre in which European, and later American, proxies (political parties, militias and kings) could vie for power, trade and influence. Iran proves that there are few things more troubled than a great nation fallen. Pride is a hard thing for people to let go of.
Against the frivolity the last weeks sandwich I present you with its opposite; still a skinny, lean, indie sandwich mind, but of one born of tradition, be it tradition gathered from the bounties of my fridge, foraged from jaunts to farmers markets. I have picked a selection of four tracks from different artists, picking up on certain ingredients but also the general sense of melancholia that I developed when considering this foodstuff. I think it was the rye bread.